I
Yes folk, he was once that young.
Girls would kiss him with their tongue.
A woman once grabbed him on the dick.
Whispered she knew a special trick.
Ends up it was a bloke.
Whattaya reckon?
Live and learn.
II
Reading is good for you she
said lovingly cramming the last of the echidna
up my wandering nostril.
Now from the top of the page
and
this time...
enunciate.
III
The day it rained frogs, my
French uncle was in
Cairo.
Talk about pissed off!
Monday, September 24, 2007
Feel For Real
At a time when the world seems to be spinning, totally out of control, we still feel sorry for things.
That’s a good thing.
And whether the feeling makes sense, is a positive move or can help someone or something achieve more than they ever thought possible…well, that don’t matter.
Having something to feel sorry for makes our life a bit easier to bear the shitter it gets.
That’s not a bad thing. But it can become an addiction.
Once you start to bemoan the plight of this poor schmuck, or that poor rain forest people, at this point of political correctness, are to polite to tell you to shut up. So you can speak and speak, slowly getting hooked on the rush that holding the attention of others brings. The sweet sensation talking out loud but saying little gives you.
But here me children…the day is not far off when ‘Blow it out yur ass’ will trumpet loud and long throughout the valley of Bagel.
Believing that and knowing the carnage which accompanies the truth, I wish to bear my soul.
I feel so, so sorry: to the point of tears, to the ends of anger, to the collapse and devastation of heartbreak, I feel so, so sorry for you, the people who must attend meetings.
The meeting has been with us since we crawled out of the biblical swamp. What made it work for centuries was they didn’t call it a meeting. There were other names.
Not once, in any western film, have we seen an Indian warrior walk into his tent and say, ’Whoa. These full days of Pow-Wow’s are gonna kill me.’
Not once in any Star Wars film that has Samuel L. Jackson in it, do we hear one of the High Council say, ‘Is it me, or is all we do in these movies is meet?’
To be called in to meet with the superiors was once a high honour and as good as a promotion. You were chosen because you were a person of decision. Confident. Strong.
Now a meeting does no work and all the criticizing. Meetings become a platform for those who never listened to anyone or were never listened to, to finally have the floor.
The most dangerous position that could ever come out of a meeting is the belief: we got it right.
And that is why my heart belongs to those who attend these chambers of verbal torture.
What horror it must be to sit through meeting after meeting with a fart that could move an ocean building and building within you and you are trying not to be noticed as you slyly shift your buttocks first one way and then, with absolutely no concern for the woman pouring tea behind you, slowly the other way to attempt even the most minute release of gas and a brief yet heavenly second of comfort.
To be so hungry at lunch due to a swag of morning meetings that offered no sustenance, you over eat and the afternoon meetings become an attempt to prevent your neck from collapsing under the enormous weight of your head.
And woe to thee that snore. Say what you like about snoring the truth is, you have no control. Fear might keep you awake while the CEO is speaking but once the 2IC or someone else who thinks they’re important starts droning, mercy, sounds like hogs running free at a church picnic.
Meetings were going on during the writing of this. Meetings are going on as you are reading this. Meetings are happening as we sleep.
For a dollar there’s a guy on the corner of Parramatta Road who will assure you meetings occur more often than sex in todays world.
For 2 dollars he won’t try to root ya.
I am not big on causes and the such but I want you to know, dear woman and men of the world who attend meetings to assure my life, every day in every way gets a little shittier …I feel sorry for ya.
That’s a good thing.
And whether the feeling makes sense, is a positive move or can help someone or something achieve more than they ever thought possible…well, that don’t matter.
Having something to feel sorry for makes our life a bit easier to bear the shitter it gets.
That’s not a bad thing. But it can become an addiction.
Once you start to bemoan the plight of this poor schmuck, or that poor rain forest people, at this point of political correctness, are to polite to tell you to shut up. So you can speak and speak, slowly getting hooked on the rush that holding the attention of others brings. The sweet sensation talking out loud but saying little gives you.
But here me children…the day is not far off when ‘Blow it out yur ass’ will trumpet loud and long throughout the valley of Bagel.
Believing that and knowing the carnage which accompanies the truth, I wish to bear my soul.
I feel so, so sorry: to the point of tears, to the ends of anger, to the collapse and devastation of heartbreak, I feel so, so sorry for you, the people who must attend meetings.
The meeting has been with us since we crawled out of the biblical swamp. What made it work for centuries was they didn’t call it a meeting. There were other names.
Not once, in any western film, have we seen an Indian warrior walk into his tent and say, ’Whoa. These full days of Pow-Wow’s are gonna kill me.’
Not once in any Star Wars film that has Samuel L. Jackson in it, do we hear one of the High Council say, ‘Is it me, or is all we do in these movies is meet?’
To be called in to meet with the superiors was once a high honour and as good as a promotion. You were chosen because you were a person of decision. Confident. Strong.
Now a meeting does no work and all the criticizing. Meetings become a platform for those who never listened to anyone or were never listened to, to finally have the floor.
The most dangerous position that could ever come out of a meeting is the belief: we got it right.
And that is why my heart belongs to those who attend these chambers of verbal torture.
What horror it must be to sit through meeting after meeting with a fart that could move an ocean building and building within you and you are trying not to be noticed as you slyly shift your buttocks first one way and then, with absolutely no concern for the woman pouring tea behind you, slowly the other way to attempt even the most minute release of gas and a brief yet heavenly second of comfort.
To be so hungry at lunch due to a swag of morning meetings that offered no sustenance, you over eat and the afternoon meetings become an attempt to prevent your neck from collapsing under the enormous weight of your head.
And woe to thee that snore. Say what you like about snoring the truth is, you have no control. Fear might keep you awake while the CEO is speaking but once the 2IC or someone else who thinks they’re important starts droning, mercy, sounds like hogs running free at a church picnic.
Meetings were going on during the writing of this. Meetings are going on as you are reading this. Meetings are happening as we sleep.
For a dollar there’s a guy on the corner of Parramatta Road who will assure you meetings occur more often than sex in todays world.
For 2 dollars he won’t try to root ya.
I am not big on causes and the such but I want you to know, dear woman and men of the world who attend meetings to assure my life, every day in every way gets a little shittier …I feel sorry for ya.
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